


The Struggle With Shiroganes

by amorremanet



Series: Right Where I Belong [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Also Iverson is gay and has an OC husband, Also a bunch of my Shirogane family headcanons, Family Feels, First Meetings, Fluff, Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), His name is Bennett Martinez. He's a journalist. They're great together., Iverson is Shiro's Godfather, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Pre-Kerberos Mission, Shiro (Voltron) Has Multiple Sclerosis, Translation: being a pining disaster runs in the family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 13:36:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15752769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: Plenty of things run in the Shirogane family: outrageous height, great smiles, legacies at both CalTech and the Galaxy Garrison. Unfortunately, being easily flustered by cute people is also one of those things.Or: “The one where Shiro is a high-key Disaster upon meeting Adam, and Iverson is impossibly reminded of his godson’s late father.”





	The Struggle With Shiroganes

**Author's Note:**

> To paraphrase Malcolm “Captain Tight-Pants” Reynolds: I have written fluff. Try not to faint.
> 
> Although this fic is part of a forthcoming, co-written AU series that runs on the premise, “What if Shiro got benched from the Kerberos mission, but Hunk went as an engineer, and then Black Paladin!Hunk and Yellow Paladin!Shiro,” this fic happens before the biggest points of canon-divergence. Technically, I think that makes it my most canon-adjacent/canon-compliant fic so far.

Mitchell Iverson expected a great many things when the Galaxy Garrison demanded that all their cadets and junior officers over the age of eighteen join the combat that will likely go down in history as World War Three. He expected to be in danger pretty regularly. He expected that he’d get called upon to pilot into potentially lethal situations, either as Tenō Noshiko’s wing-man or with her at his side. He expected to get chewed out by Admiral Dos Santos on a semi-regular basis for one reason or another.

One thing he did not expect, however? Leaning against the wall by a door in the Ahn Building, finally getting a moment to himself for the first time in what must be weeks — only to have his quiet solitude interrupted by a series of dull thuds and yelping noises from inside the stairwell.

Closing his eyes, Iverson inhales deeply. Drums his fingertips along his elbow. He should walk away. Right now, before anything can get the better of him and before giving himself the chance to get dragged into something that’s not his business. He should head to the mess hall for dinner and pretend that he heard absolutely nothing.

As if on cue, somebody groans in pain behind the door.

Slouching, Iverson grumbles and counts to ten inside his head. He’s going to regret turning back to the door and sticking his head into whatever’s going on this afternoon. Still, he didn’t join the Garrison to leave anyone behind. With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Iverson pushes into the stairwell — and nearly stumbles over a tangled heap of gangly limbs, black hair, and wire-rim glasses that, under normal circumstances, is one of his best friends.

Down on the floor, Hikaru Shirogane whines as if pretending that he isn’t in any pain. Iverson doesn’t allow himself the luxury of a huff. At the moment, Iverson voicing his exasperation would only kick Hikaru while he’s down and make both of them feel worse.

“You are a _non-combatant_ technician,” he points out, digging at his temple. “How in the Sam Heck have you needed more medical attention than I have.”

“You weren’t _there_ , Mitch—”

“Were you watching Noshiko run the simulator again?”

Making a piteous, throaty little noise, Hikaru nods. “She flew that mission to Titan, with the storm on the surface,” he says, wilting against the terrazzo. As he sighs wistfully, his brown eyes glisten like he could start crying. “She was amazing… She got a perfect score—”

“And if you don’t knock this off already? You’re never gonna see the end of the war and get a chance to ask her out.”

Of course, Iverson hopes that doesn’t happen — but for right now, he focuses on crouching by Hikaru and easing him into sitting up.

Once they’ve got that accomplished, he curls an arm around Hikaru’s back, scoops him close, and helps the idiot-genius to his feet. Half-dragging him down the corridor, Iverson keeps his hands on Hikaru’s hip and forearm. If he wanted to be a grade-A jerk, he could say any number of things about how most people would never expect for Hikaru to get like this, seeing as he’s the latest installment in a family legacy that stretches back to the Garrison’s founding.

Instead of giving him that chance, Hikaru decides to babble, “Why don’t you get it, Mitch? How wonderful she—”

“Noshiko’s great. She’s saved my bacon more times than I wanna count.” Iverson shrugs. “I’m just too gay for—”

“When she got out of the simulator today, it was so…” As though it means literally anything, Hikaru keens and drops his head onto Iverson’s shoulder. “She smiled at me, y’know? With those gray eyes of hers? And then she flipped her _hair_? And the sunlight came in and hit the apples of her cheeks _so_ nicely—”

“Hikaru, I swear to God.” Shoving his shoulder into the door, Iverson hauls them out into the cool, early evening air. “If your future kids — my future godchildren — ever crush on someone even half this badly? I am gonna scream.”

 ***** ***** *****

Tuesday, September 2nd, 2104 CE — the first day of classes at the Galaxy Garrison’s flight school, and Shiro can hardly breathe.

Granted, that’s not a huge change because he’s barely been able to breathe since he first got to campus on August 25th. His twin brother Ryou, Aunt Satomi, and her wife Naoko all helped move Shiro into the cadet dormitories. Neither of his and Ryou’s grandparents felt up to carrying anything too heavy, though Shiro’s namesake Grandfather insisted on posing for various photos around campus. Once they had Shiro’s things more or less settled in, Grandfather Takashi made him shower so they could take pictures with Shiro in his new orange-and-cream uniform.

Move-in day, orientation week, and breakfast today would’ve been easier if Shiro could get through them without hordes of nameless faces staring in his direction and whispering amongst themselves. He can never hear them clearly, but he can guess what’s on their tongues: there he is, the latest installment in the Shirogane family’s hundred-and-fifty-year legacy at the Garrison. Anyone who’s seen photos of his late parents might add that Shiro is a near-perfect spitting image of his Dad, aside from having Mom’s gray eyes. Everyone who doesn’t know what Hikaru and Noshiko Shirogane looked like could call Shiro a downright string-bean after a recent growth spurt, say he’s gamboling like a fawn first learning how to walk.

Thankfully, Shiro’s latest round of medical imaging studies mean that, if he _is_ unsteady on his feet, then he can only blame the growth spurt. His MS has been in a long remission period. Whether that’s due to his diet, his schedule of medications, his daily habit of forcing himself through rigorous strength, resistance, and flexibility training, his new electro-stimulator bracelets, or some combination of factors? Shiro can’t be entirely certain — but he also can’t argue. Not when he worked so hard to get healthy enough for the Garrison — worked so hard to not only meet their standards of physical health but exceed them, as Admiral Sanda recommended — and now, he’s finally here.

Were Shiro in the arguing mood, he’d quibble about how the TA in charge of his first class could try getting to their room on-time. Sighing, Shiro rests an elbow on his desk and his cheek in his palm. Outside, the sun shines down with no clouds in the way and a breeze rustles through the genetically modified trees by the window. Garrison scientists designed those things to better handle growing in the desert — which is neat, Shiro supposes? He’d appreciate it more if anyone but Ollie Harkness, his new roommate, would actually talk _to_ him instead of jabbering _about_ him. But Shiro could say the same about _everything_ he’s seen so far—

_Tap!_

Something raps on Shiro’s desk. He gasps, and—  


_Tap-tap! Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap!_

Shiro snaps into the most rigid posture that he can. His right hand jolts up to his forehead and he holds his breath.

“Excuse — I didn’t mean…” A long-fingered, brown hand jerks back from Shiro’s desk. “Sorry, I didn’t…”

Whoever this is, they’re sitting at the desk in front of Shiro. He traces his eyes up their arm. As he takes in the sight of an orange-and-cream uniform like his own, Shiro heaves a sigh of relief and lets himself slump back. Another cadet wanted his attention, not an officer or even a TA… Probably, they think that Shiro’s out of his mind, now? But he might be able to pass this off as first day jitters. Might find another excuse to make for himself, if that one doesn’t go over well.

“Are you okay?” Whoever this is clears their throat when Shiro can’t cough up an answer. He makes himself look at their face.

Blinking at a pair of honey-colored eyes and a set of black plastic glasses without upper rims, Shiro feels his heart race faster than the newest line of Jamison-Nichols hover-bikes. His head spins as he takes in a sharp jawline, and fine cheekbones, and that mop of sandy hair. The guy in front of Shiro has locks scattered all over with a devil-may-care easiness that practically begs someone to remind him of the Galaxy Garrison’s appearance guidelines for cadets. Shiro should say something devastatingly clever to match how unfairly handsome this guy is — but his breath hitches in his throat.

As his new classmate gives him a gentle smile, Shiro could swear that someone’s shot his mouth full of Novocaine.

“Sorry to startle you,” he says in a velvet-smooth voice. “But do you have a spare stylus? For your data-pad? I can’t find mine.”

Fumbling his spare out of his pocket, Shiro flushes warm and tries to say that he doesn’t mind. Dimly, he suspects that it comes out sounding more like, _“assembly line”_ — and God, he has never been more relieved that Ryou wants to follow the family legacy at CalTech. If his brother could see him now, Shiro would never hear the end of it.

Handsome Classmate leans on the back of his chair, refusing to look away from Shiro. “The name’s Adam. What’s yours?”

A thick gulp clears Shiro’s throat — but it doesn’t keep him from whispering, “So cute…”

“Huh? Excuse me?”

“I — just — sorry, I—” A quick shake of the head rattles some mental wires back into place. Helps Shiro put on a wobbly smile. “It’s Shiro? Er, well, Takashi Shirogane? But most people tend to call me, ‘Shiro’?”

“‘Shiro,’ huh?” Adam furrows his brow and tilts his head. Pouting concernedly, he pushes a clump of bangs off his forehead. “That doesn’t sound like a very… I mean, if you _like_ it, then I guess it’s fine? But it sounds kinda… not like a name?”

“What isn’t name-like about it?”

“Don’t you think it sounds _technical_? I don’t want to say, ‘dehumanizing’? But certainly impersonal? And I don’t mean, like…” Adam sighs, pensive and frustrated all at once. “Not, ‘impersonal’ like they don’t know you? But, ‘impersonal’ like they don’t really see you as a person?”

Shiro’s shoulders droop. He ducks his chin and scratches the back of his neck. “I never really thought about it that much?”

The most Shiro’s thought about his name is either wondering if he’ll ever live up to the long line of Shirogane Takashis who came before him, or knowing that, with family, he’s always, _“Kashi”_ while his Grandfather Namesake is, _“Taka,” “Takashi,”_ or, _“Ojiisan.”_

“Well, can I call you, ‘Takashi’?” Adam’s lips tremble as he asks, “Would you mind?”

“N-no, I don’t?” Shiro tries to smile. He hopes he doesn’t look deranged. “Go ahead.”

Adam’s grin is broad, and bright, and it slaps Shiro across the face while making his chest feel like it’s full of fireworks.

“Nice to meet you, Takashi.” As the instructor clears her throat, Adam gives Shiro a wink. “Thanks for the stylus.”

Watching Adam turn away, Shiro has to choke down a sigh of relief. God, if he makes it to lunchtime without keeling over dead, it might well be a miracle.

 ***** ***** *****

Not only does Shiro make it to lunchtime on the first day of classes, he also makes it through two weeks as a cadet. On the third Wednesday, they finally get to run drills in the simulators. Nothing fancy — they simply practice flying in formation with each other — but Shiro gets a rush like he’s only rarely felt before. Even though it’s just a simulation, flight is… amazing. Perfect. Shiro never wants for this to end.

When he stumbles out of the sim-cab and into line with the other cadets, he doesn’t think that his head could get spinning any more than it already is. Then, Professor Montgomery reads out the report. Tells them how they did for this first run and who the top three are. Third place goes to Laura Shepard, one of the other Garrison Legacies, who glows with pride but doesn’t get too smug about it. Second place goes to Adam, who grins but waits on tenterhooks for the next announcement. Looking up from her data-pad, Professor Montgomery smiles at—

“Shirogane.”

“Huh,” Shiro splutters thickly. “What did I—”

“You’re top of the class for this first go, Cadet,” she explains. “You’re setting a high bar for yourself. Good work.”

Nodding, Shiro salutes — and fights to keep his hand in place when Adam claps him on the back. Most of the other congratulations are restrained. Polite enough, but with a distinct edge to them, as if Shiro’s fellow cadets can’t wait to shove him from his current placement. Only Ollie, Laura, and Adam actually seem to mean a single word they say, with Adam putting more into it than the others. God, Shiro beat him out for the top spot today. Adam should be furiously jealous, right?

When Professor Montgomery dismisses them to go get lunch, Adam’s all smiles. He hovers close to Shiro, beaming like a human ray of sunshine while he jaws about fifteen things at once. Shiro’s trying to keep up, but listening to Adam talk? He gets so lost in Adam’s voice, he doesn’t notice where they’re going until one of his feet slips along the edge of a stair.

A chill shudders down Shiro’s spine — but then Adam taps his shoulder. Swallowing thickly, Shiro flushes so warm, it’s like he has a fever.

Looking at Shiro’s lips, Adam nods. “Takashi, I wanted to ask—”

Before he can, something _ding!_ s in Adam’s pocket. He curses, looking at his phone’s screen.

“My Mom needs me to call.” Pouting, he takes a step back. “I’ll see you in class later, yeah?”

“I mean, you’ll have to?” Shrugging, forcing a grin, Shiro ruffles a palm over his own hair. “I’m not gonna skip after working so hard to get here.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” With a warm grin, Adam squeezes Shiro’s bicep. “Keep sharp, Pretty Boy. It’s no fun beating you if you don’t put up a fight.”

“Yeah, uh huh, I… You know it.”

Dialing his Mom, Adam chuckles. “I’m gonna get you next time.”

Although she picks up for him right away, Adam lingers long enough to wink at Shiro one more time. Watching him go, Shiro gets a pang of longing — hot and thick, coiling itself around his heart like a nest of vipers that Shiro didn’t know he wanted until recently.

On the other hand, he can’t pry his eyes away from Adam’s backside. When the door slams shut behind him, Shiro slouches. He could go after Adam, though. Catch up to him, at least get more of a chance to look at him.

Except as Shiro launches himself into a step, his foot slips off a stair and collides with empty space. Nothing but thin air and his stomach dropping as he topples over.

 ***** ***** *****

Mitchell Iverson expected a great many things when his elder godson decided to join the Galaxy Garrison. He expected to swell with pride pretty regularly. He expected to chase after Kashi about taking his medications, so he doesn’t once again decide that being in a remission period means he doesn’t need them anymore. He expected to question that boy’s judgment on a semi-regular basis for one reason or another.

As he passes by a stairwell door in the Ahn Building, Iverson’s ears prick up at a sound he hasn’t heard in ages: a series of dull thuds and yelping noises. He takes a deep breath, twists the gold ring on his left hand to steady his nerves, and sighs deeply. Unless he’s wrong, Iverson’s gonna lose a fifty-dollar bet with his husband over this.

Blinking down at the tangled heap of gangly limbs, black hair, and Noshiko’s eyes that, under normal circumstances, is his godson, Iverson can’t help sighing. Yep, he should have expected this — but since saying so would only kick Kashi while he’s down, Iverson tries to smile at him.

Wincing, Kashi gives him a limp salute. “Uncle Mitch?”

“At ease, son.” Iverson counts to ten inside his head. “You know I hate to ask this, but—”

“Hate to ask which?”

“I know you didn’t skip breakfast, since I saw you there.” Kneading at the temple by his bad eye, Iverson huffs. “Did you have a muscle spasm? Or was there a cute boy involved?”

“The _cutest_. Adam, he’s — Cadet West, I mean?” Finally letting his arm flop to the terrazzo floor, Kashi gives up a small, piteous whine. “Muscle spasms would’ve been easier. At least they don’t have a smile that’s like getting stabbed in the heart but in a good way.”

“Your Grandmother’s gonna be beside herself with joy if you start writing poetry again.”

“Oh yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Kashi deadpans. “‘Roses are red. Violets are gay. Adam’s smile is the story of how I died.’”

“Right, well.” Iverson crouches at Kashi’s side and guides him into sitting up. “We’re gonna get you on your feet and over to the infirmary. Then, I’m gonna go smuggle some mac and cheese out of the commissary for you. Sound like a plan?”

As Iverson scoops him close, Kashi nods. “Thanks, Uncle Mitch.”

“What kind of godfather would I be if I didn’t make sure that you got lunch.”

“No, I mean…” Kashi winces as they stand, but he doesn’t put up a fight. “Thanks for not laughing? Or getting exasperated?”

Half-dragging Kashi out into the corridor, Iverson rolls his eye and shakes his head. “Son, you have _no idea_ how many times I did this for your father — both before he started dating your mother _and_ after. The only bad things that I see right now—” Iverson swallows a sigh as Kashi’s head lolls onto his shoulder. “—are the fact that you might be hurt and—”

“The fact that I’m a completely train-wrecked _mess_ about a boy?”

“Nope.” Even though Kashi isn’t looking at him, Iverson smiles. “I owe Bennett fifty bucks. I thought Ryou would be first to fall down a flight of stairs over a crush.”

“Oh.” He wilts as they meet the sunlight and the humid afternoon air, but thankfully, Kashi keeps walking. “So, would my Dad be proud of me? Like I’m carrying on a family tradition right now? Or would he be, I dunno, ashamed of me?”

Gently, Iverson pats Kashi’s bicep. “Son, your Dad loved you, Ryou, and your Mom more than anything.” Squeezing the boy’s wrist, he adds, “Above all else? He’d be concerned that you fell down a flight of stairs and could’ve gotten injured.”

Groaning softly, Kashi admits, “The things that hurt most are my heart and my ego.”

Iverson snorts. “That’s good — but because I’m old-fashioned? We’re still gonna go make sure you aren’t concussed or anything.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Q:** Did I shamelessly come up with a “Trouble With Tribbles”-ripoff title because you can pry Trekkie!Shiro from my cold, dead hands, and also I was titling things at two in the morning?
> 
>  **A:** Yeah, basically. Anyway, Shiro is a gay disaster who loves _Star Trek_ almost as much as I love him. I’m also on Tumblr ([amorremanet](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com)) and Discord (amorremanet#5500), for all of your gay disaster-loving Shiro needs.


End file.
